To officers’ frustration, a passenger holding a McDonald’s bag leaped from the still-moving Dodge, dumped the bag (which contained 3 ounces of methamphetamine and a glass pipe), climbed a fence and, despite Catalano’s chase, escaped. Meanwhile, Rodriguez halted Simmons at gunpoint and found half a gram of methamphetamine hidden underneath the driver’s-seat cover, plus 17 Vicodin pills in the vehicle’s center console. Deputies raided Simmons’ home; there, they say, they found 171 grams of marijuana and the tools of a drug dealer: small plastic bags, digital scales, a box of syringes, $3,300 in cash and a loaded handgun. Catalano reported that Simmons voluntarily confessed to selling drugs. Based on the investigator’s work, prosecutors filed seven felonies and two misdemeanors. The district attorney’s office thought the crimes merited an eight-year trip to a California penitentiary.

But Simmons didn’t spend one hour in prison. Indeed, his case never went to trial—because the sheriff’s report was not entirely truthful and the preliminary hearing testimony of deputies wasn’t especially credible. As a result, the DA’s office dismissed five of the most serious charges. Last year, Simmons pleaded guilty to two remaining counts: illegal possession of a handgun by a felon and possession of an amount of concentrated cannabis. His punishment? Ninety days of home confinement, a generous resolution for a man the OCSD had pegged as a drug dealer working on the outskirts of the Happiest Place on Earth.

How did this happen? The answer is found in the transcript of the preliminary hearing—which features the closest thing to a Perry Mason moment you’re likely to see in a real-life courtroom.

The courtroom in question was that of Sarah S. Jones, who worked as an intern in the Orange County DA’s office while she attended USC law school and later joined the office as a prosecutor. She left to represent State Farm and Pacific Mutual Life Insurance. In 1985, Republican Governor George Deukmejian appointed her to the Orange County bench.

Barnett works for the public defender’s office, but he isn’t just another PD. His father, John, is among the elite of California’s criminal-defense bar. Cops—the people who know firsthand the importance of superb legal representation—often turn to John Barnett when they’re accused of wrongdoing. The gorgeous house in Laguna Beach atop a hill with sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean is one testament to how well the elder Barnett knows his trade.

The Simmons case proves the Barnett pedigree lives on. Alvarez called Catalano as her first witness, and the deputy gave confident answers about the arrest. To Barnett’s questions, however, the investigator repeatedly responded with phrases such as “I can’t say for sure,” “I don’t remember exactly,” “I don’t know,” “I might have,” “I can’t remember” and “I can’t say for sure either way,” according to the court transcript.

Barnett got Catalano to claim his report was accurate, that he was the lead investigator, and that only he questioned Simmons at the scene while Rodriguez stood nearby. But most important—and over Alvarez’s strenuous objections—the public defender got the investigator to say, “I never threatened [Simmons] at any point.” One of Simmons’ front teeth had somehow been knocked out during the arrest.

When it was his turn to testify, Rodriguez also asserted to Barnett that no one but Catalano had questioned Simmons.

“You didn’t make anything up about Mr. Simmons that pertains to this case, did you?” Barnett asked.

“No, sir,” Rodriguez fired back.

Jones conducted a sidebar conference.

“What are you doing?” she asked Barnett, according to the transcript. The public defender explained he’d been provided an officer-made audio recording from the arrest scene and wanted to play it in court.

“Why?” the judge asked.

“For impeachment,” said Barnett.

“The People object,” said Alvarez, who fired off six objections including “It will take undue time.”